Awake
by shadowkissed-rachel
Summary: AU - All Human. NAAMA has finally reached its breaking point and the people are ready to fight back. Lissa has found herself in the middle of a war she helped start, but never dreamed she would be a part of. Rose has abandoned the fight to track down Dimitri, a feat she knows might claim her life. All fates will be decided in this final installment of the Pulse Trilogy.
1. Chapter 1

**THIS STORY IS PART THREE OF A TRILOGY, THE FIRST INSTALLMENT IS CALLED PULSE AND THE SECOND IS HAVEN. THEY ARE MEANT TO BE READ IN THAT ORDER.**

" _Let them think what they liked, but I didn't mean to drown myself. I meant to swim till I sank - but that's not the same thing."_

― Joseph Conrad, The Secret Sharer and other stories

 _ **Ivan –**_

I wish someone would have told me that plants still fucking grow in the Winter. When I had first reached the Northwestern Province in early January, I had assumed that farming would be a safe enough profession, and by "safe," I mean it would afford me the most opportunities to sit around, get drunk, and ask questions.

The fields are buried beneath layers of snow and ice, I had thought, I won't be expected to perform any manual labor until Spring and by then I'll be gone, right?

Wrong.

Moments after introducing myself to the compound's foreman, the squat little man had taken it upon himself to spend the next 45 minutes of my life explaining to me that winter-harvest carrots are the sweetest. As if my existence wasn't already sad enough – having been reduced to a pathetic stream of days held together by self-loathing and liquor - now I could add the growth cycle of fucking carrots to the list of things I wish I could forget.

There is so much I wish I could forget.

But even as I wrap numb fingers, the tips of which are warped with frostbite and soil, around the stem of one of those wretched orange vegetables, I know if given the chance to go back – there isn't much I could have done differently. No matter how many times I replay the events that led to this moment over in my head, I ultimately end up here: in a backwater compound harvesting carrots alongside the Pulse's ravaged survivors, wondering where my next meal, and more importantly – my next drink, is going to come from.

"Ivan," one of the men in the fields calls to me. He trudges through piles of dirt and snow, wiping mud on his already filthy clothing.

It takes me a few moments to realize that he's talking to me. I rise slowly to my feet, careful to keep my eyes averted. My entire body aches with the effort. One hand rakes through my cropped hair, and the feeling of the dirty matted strands between my fingers sends a pang of regret surging through me.

 _It's just hair_ , I think, chastising myself for caring about something as inconsequential as my hair. Especially when I consider what the rest of me probably looks like.

I can't remember the man's name, and so I settle for grunting in his general direction.

"Me and some of the boys are heading back to Rolan's to play cards," he says, kicking absentmindedly at one of the baskets I had filled only half-way with vegetation. "You in?"

I squint at the man out of the corner of my right eye, trying to remember if he had been the one to punch out my left – it's been swollen shut for three days now but the exact details of how that happened are a little fuzzy.

The words come slow to my lips. "What kind of buy-in are we talkin?" I ask, keeping my voice low, trying to force as much gravel into it as I can manage.

The man shrugs. "Just bring whatever you got."

Not what I had wanted to hear, _whatever you got_ translates easily into _this is a low-stakes pot_. The lower the stakes, the lower the players are situated and the less likely it is that I will get my hands on the information I came here to find.

I turn from the man, lowering my aching body into a crouch. "Maybe some other time," I tell him, reaching to pluck another demon vegetable from a row of dirty slush.

The man, unable to take a hint, remains where he is. His beefy bald head blocks what little warmth and light the winter sun has to offer and I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to yell at him to move his fat ass before I move it for him.

 _Hands to yourself_ , I remind myself. I'd done enough fighting to last a lifetime – probably three lifetimes. This man isn't worth my time.

"You sure?" he asks. The step he takes toward me dredges up some of the surrounding snow, and the flecks of ice kick up into my face, "I think Rolan kinda likes havin' you around. I think," he says, lowering himself onto his haunches beside me. "He would be pretty disappointed if you didn't show."

This close, the man smells like a mixture of rotting eggs and stale whiskey, but his meaning is clear.

Rolan fancies himself a kind of provincial kingpin. He's somehow managed to get in good with the warehouse workers and the Resource Distribution supervisors, now he hoards the resources – distributing them to the provincial citizens as he sees fit.

But I'm not interested in extra rations or first aid-kits, I'm interested in the kinds of connections a man in Rolan's position must have had to make in order to survive this long.

I toss the carrot into the basket, still careful to avoid direct eye contact with the man. "What's Rolan want with me?" I ask, trying to feign ignorance, but I can actually think of a number of reasons he might be interested in me. At best, he finds my drunken antics entertaining, or appreciates that my gambling methods usually lead me to losing hard and losing big. At worst, I unknowingly insulted him or someone close to him during one of my spirit-fueled fits of rage.

The man's face splits into a yellow-toothed grin and it sets the meager contents of my stomach churning. "Don't you remember?" he asks, a sort of edged playfulness cutting through his words. "You and Rolan cut a deal the last time you were at his unit. You were talkin' an awfully big game about your past dealings with those belted NAAMA sons of bitches."

Bile rises in my throat. I don't recall cutting any kind of deal that involved my past with the NAAMA military, but even though the thought of dredging up those memories sends a mixture of disgust and regret snaking along my bones, I'm unsurprised that the intoxicated version of myself would use it as a bartering chip.

"I believe Rolan would like to pick up that particular discussion where the two of you left off, and it would be unwise to refuse such an invitation" the man continues. "On account of how mutually beneficial the arrangement could be."

"Mutually beneficial," I repeat skeptically, rising to my feet. I fleetingly wonder if the _benefit_ Rolan has in mind involves me winding up in a ditch. I'm almost partial to the idea.

The man straightens, rising to his full height beside me. He probably means to intimidate me, he is about 7 inches taller than me after all, but he doesn't know that I've spent most of my life training to take down men larger than myself.

His posture is sloppy and he seems to favor his right side. _All it would take is a hit to the left kneecap,_ _a combination hit to the lower back, and a knee to the nose_ , I think to myself.

But I don't follow through; he's not worth the pain it would cause me to move the way I once had.

I heave a defeated sigh. "I don't suppose you recall what kind of favor Rolan meant to do me in return." Because I most certainly did not. Maybe I had asked the right questions, but more likely I had told him that his housing unit smelled like a goat's ass.

The sound of the man's laughter is grating, the kind of deep cackle that would probably make plants curl in on themselves if they weren't already half-frozen. "You're a funny man, Ivan. Stupid as they come and a shit gambler, but still funny." He pauses to wipe a tear from his eye, but his expression shifts from amusement to confusion upon realizing I genuinely don't remember what he's talking about. "Your friend," he says, "The one you're looking for. Rolan thinks he may know where to find him."

I shrug and offer the man a rueful smirk. "Doesn't ring a bell," I tell him, even though my heart is actually exploding in my chest. "Guess I should lay off the booze."

The man's dark eyes narrow in suspicion. "On the contrary, I think a hot drink is just the thing to help you remember."

A sound splits the air, and I nearly leap out my skin at the disturbance. _It's just the bell calling back the field hands_ , I remind myself. But the sound feels more like a machine gun than the toll of a bell. Memories float on the surface of my mind, sending ripples through my consciousness.

It feels like drowning.

Despite being well aware that a drink is the last thing I need, my hands still twitch at my sides at the thought. "Lead the way then," I say, gesturing toward the stone walls of the compound.

This is my fifth compound in two months. Five compounds, five false identities, zero answers. I wish I could say the drinking helps me cope – with the failure, with the loss, with the past, but it doesn't. The only thing its good for is forgetting.

My escort leads me past rows of vegetables and toward the compound. We're soon joined by the other field-hands and we all walk as one giant dirty blob of irritable men. I hear the murmuring of plans – plans to see their family, plans to get some sleep, plans to thaw out frozen limbs and hearts. None of the men talk about anything of consequence though. They are all slaves to a country that would sooner slaughter them all than risk them coming together, and yet the only plans they make are to go home and get warm.

I am constantly reminding myself that they don't know any better. They don't know that there is more to life than this. After all, we live in a world where knowledge is not power – it's a death sentence.

When we pass through the open gates of the compound, I'm careful to keep my head down. Out of the corner of my good eye I spot two armed men, but they don't wear the khaki-colored jumpsuits of the provincial guard.

They're both NAAMA military – one green, one silver.

Both of them seem uninterested in the group of dirty, tired men, but I know better than to assume they aren't paying attention.

It feels like every branch of the NAAMA military has permeated the walls of even the most remote compounds. But their belts don't scare me, not any more. It makes me think that the Executor is scared; it makes me think that maybe the combatives are stretched too thinly to be effective; it almost makes me hopeful.

But I didn't come here to help start a revolution. I came here to find answers, and Rolan's veiled assurances that he may have found my _friend_ is the only thing I have to go on.

* * *

From the outside, Rolan's housing unit looks like every other unit in NAAMA – square, gray, slightly dilapidated, but the inside is probably violating a few industry standards. The scuffed wooden floors and only slightly peeling wallpaper are probably considered by most NAAMA citizens to be luxurious details, but the real luxury is the lighting. Rolan has access to electricity almost 24/7, something that shouldn't be possible.

Rolan Kislyak is probably considered attractive by most, but only because they don't know him. His green eyes twinkle with mischief and cruelty, but I'm still convinced he's not half so cunning as he would like those beneath him to believe. Still, whatever the reason, the people of NAAMA are drawn to him, from citizens, to washed up provincial guards, to the newest military recruits.

I sit across a heavy wooden table from Rolan, with one hand clutched around playing cards and the other around a mug of what I think could be mulled wine. He has yet to mention anything about the supposed deal we had struck the last time I'd been sitting at this table. Probably because he's too busy sucking up to the retired provincial guard captain to his left.

The captain is far too young to be retired, but he's also probably too drunk to care that he'd been pushed out of his cushiony position by some trigger-happy, recently graduated, NAAMA military officer.

The captain laughs at something one of the other men seated at the table says, I glance at my companions, trying to place their names and their faces but my vision is blurred by the alcohol or my injuries or by both. I try to focus on the cards in my hands and the world around me tilts slightly.

My good eye fixes on the tiny red heart on the card, but holding the image in my mind is like trying to hold water in the palm of my hand. The longer I stare, the less real everything feels. The colors on the card look like their bleeding together and I giggle to myself – _a bleeding heart_.

Someone had once told me that my own heart beat outside my chest, only it went by another name. I close my good eye and the giggle turns into a hiccup that turns into a low sob. No one seems to notice.

I silently curse myself for agreeing to the first drink.

And then a second.

And a third.

It's possible that a fourth one was involved.

"How much longer do you think you'll be able to hold onto this place, Rolan?" one of the men seated at the table asks. He glances at his cards, folds, and then takes a long sip from his mug.

Rolan doesn't answer right away, his eyes sweep across his cards and then he drops a handful of chips onto the center of the table. "Why should I be concerned?" He says, finally looking up to offer us all a challenging grin.

"The Executor is shifting the population around," the man says, eyeing the pot longingly. "It won't be long before our compound is just as overcrowded as the ones in the southern provinces."

Rolan shrugs. "I don't think it will be a problem, she only means to convert some of the less productive compounds to facilities that are more…accommodating of the rehabilitation initiative. That will take care of the overcrowding problems, as well as help put some of our more troubled citizens back on their feet."

The men murmur their agreement, but I have to fight the urge to be sick. If the Executor really is shifting the population around, my job is about to get much harder. I do my best to file this piece of information away, hoping it might make tonight's visit to Rolan's worth the hangover.

"That's not what I've heard," the captain counters, adding some of his chips to the pot. "Some of the compounds are revolting, why bother rehabilitating them when she can drop a couple explosives and be done with it?"

I fold, then drain my mug. Maybe the person that I used to be would have faced these horror head on, would have fought back, would have told this man that he was wrong. But the person I am now can hardly face a mirror, let alone the terrible truths that lurk behind every corner of my existence.

"Is that her plan?" Rolan asks, doing a half-assed job of concealing his eagerness.

The captain seems pleased to have Rolan so interested in what he has to say. "Oh, she's got a plan alright. She's got to stamp out that little rebellion in the south pretty quickly if she wants to hold this country together."

"Naturally," Rolan agrees. "What are your thoughts, Ivan?"

It takes far too long for me to register that Rolan is talking to me. "The captain is right," I say, my words slurred. "The threat in the south is growing fast."

"Have you spent much time there?" he asks.

I shake my head, and the room spins. "Never been past the Mason-Dixon."

Rolan laughs. "You must get out more my friend."

I nod, worried that trying to form words might be beyond my ability at this point.

"Ivan," someone else calls, but the sound is muffled, as if we were both under water. "Ivan."

"That's not my name," I murmur, but I'm not sure if anyone understands me.

I can feel myself slipping away, and I welcome it. It's the only way I can find peace, the only way I can keep the pain at bay. I know he would hate what I've done to myself, but it's too hard to do anything else, to be anyone else. It helps, in a twisted way, that he probably wouldn't recognize me now. The girl he used to love is gone, though sometimes I feel like she haunts me.

I supposed it doesn't really matter anymore.

I stopped being Rose Hathaway the moment they took him away.

* * *

 **Hey everyone! I'm super excited to get started on** _ **Awake**_ **. It's the last installment of the series, and probably the darkest? (There's possibly a happy ending if you stick around though).**

 **I would LOVE to hear your predictions and thoughts, or maybe even something you'd like to read in a later update. Believe it or not, some of your reviews have strongly influenced this story, you guys are far more brilliant than I could ever be.**

 **I hope you all have enjoyed reading this series as much as I've enjoyed sharing it with you!**


	2. Chapter 2

" _Theirs not to make reply,_

 _Theirs not to reason why,_

 _Theirs but to do and die."_

― Alfred Tennyson, The Charge of the Light Brigade

 _ **Vasilisa –**_

I used to think that the ocean was beautiful.

Well I guess I had thought that the _idea_ of the ocean was beautiful, having grown up surrounded by a sea of cornfields, not seawater. When Victor had first explained what the vast expanses of blue I'd pointed out on his worn map really were, I hadn't believed him. He'd told me to picture deep blue water, rippling and shifting and shining as far as the eye could see, to imagine a force of nature that was as deadly and unpredictable as it was beautiful.

I'd fallen in love with the idea of the ocean almost instantly. I wanted to be just like her – mysterious and lovely and treacherous. When I was young and still had the energy to daydream, I would find myself craving the shore, laid flat like paper. I wanted to rest my chin against grains of sand and watch as the tide drew breath, then crawled along the sand toward me until the foamy blue-green edges of the sea kissed the tips of my toes and licked up my legs and chest and arms. I longed for her to carry me away, to keep me adrift until NAAMA was just a speck of rock on the horizon.

But now, with my hands wrapped tightly around the metal railings of a commandeered cargo vessel, I'm not so sure how I feel about the ocean. It's possible that having heaved the contents of my stomach into the sea every morning for the past two months has taken away some of the majesty I had once associated it with.

A gust of wind whips knotted strands of hair all around me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to focus on anything but the way the deck of the boat tilts beneath me. Christian finds the rocking motion soothing, but it usually sets my insides churning. He finds the briny sea air refreshing, but the salt stings my nostrils and the back of my throat.

I feel a hand come to rest at the small of my back. "How are you feeling?" Christian's tone is gentle, as if speaking too loudly might make me sick all over again. I consider telling him not to worry, whatever had been in my stomach is currently floating on the surface of the Atlantic.

"Spectacular," I mumble, forcing myself to meet Christian's gaze. It takes more effort than it should to bite back the bitterness I feel lurking beneath my words. It's not Christian's fault my body has failed so miserably at adjusting to life at sea.

He draws lazy circles up my back with the tips of his fingers. "Have you tried focusing on the horizon?"

I want to snap at him that I've tried _everything_ , but the last thing I need right now is to start a fight with Christian. Instead I shake my head.

He takes a step closer to me, his arm wrapping tightly around my waist. "Look," he says, pointing out across the sea with his free hand. "Keep your eyes focused on the skyline."

I let my focus drift from the murky water lapping up against the ship's hull to the horizon. It's barely dawn and the sky is bruised with pale blues and purples. The line where the sky meets the sea is so perfectly straight, I can almost understand how those that came before us had once thought that the Earth was flat – it _feels_ flat, like we could sail straight toward the pale golden sun and fall right over the edge of the world.

"Whenever I felt frustrated or discouraged by our lack of progress," Christian starts, turning to nestle his chin on the top of my head. "Tatiana would always would tell me – _eyes on the horizon, Christian._ " The light fondness with which he recalls the former councilwoman tugs at me. She didn't deserve what happened to her.

I swallow back the thought. "What did she mean by that?"

"We would stand together at the top of her office, and she would tell me to look out as far as my eyes could see. _Don't look down,_ she'd say, _don't look to the sides, just look out_. _Only when you have found the absolute farthest point can you start to figure out the best way of getting there_. It always helped to ground me."

I take a deep breath in through my nose, and for once, the sea air almost feels soothing. "Who knew Tatiana could be so warm and fuzzy."

I can feel Christian's laugh before I hear it, it's low and warm and ripples through me – it calms me more than anything.

"I don't know if _warm and fuzzy_ was her intention. It was just her way of keeping me on track," he continues. "It's easy to get caught up in the details, the little mistakes we make, and in all the ways we think we have failed…" his voice trails off and I can't help but wonder which of our most recent failures is weighing on him today – Tatiana's murder, Victor's execution, Ethan's escape, Dimitri's kidnapping, Rose's disappearance, our flimsy plan for the Executor. The list feels endless.

"Tatiana was right," I tell him, twisting in his arms to face him. "We have to keep our eyes up, we can't lose sight of why we started fighting – we can still do this, we can still make a difference." I'm not sure which of us I'm trying to convince, and I'm not sure if either of use believes it, but it doesn't stop me from trying.

Christian smiles down at me, his blue eyes a perfectly reflection of the sea. I guess the ocean isn't so bad.

"There you are!" a voice calls, and it stingingly reminds me of how little alone time I've had with Christian since we'd boarded the ship.

Christian and I turn in reluctant unison to find Adrian standing across the cargo deck from us. The wind tousles his curly brown hair in a way that looks messy, but still annoyingly attractive. One night while we had all been having dinner below deck, Sydney had a little too much to drink and said he reminded her of a statue carved by Michelangelo himself.

Now Adrian will usually only answer to David or the Genius of Victory. I'm still not sure I've forgiven Sydney for it yet.

"The Almighty Sage wants to regroup one last time before we dock," Adrian tells us, kicking absent mindedly at the planks below him. "Probably to remind us for the one millionth time of the sacrifices he's made to get us here."

"Ass," Christian mutters, turning his gaze back toward the rising sun.

Surprisingly enough, Jared Sage had actually done a lot for us recently, despite all that he had done _to_ us in the past. Once he had been convinced that abandoning Portum Lux was our only option, he'd done everything in his power to keep the civilians safe.

Even though Tatiana and the rest of the council had always insisted that their city was the safest place for them, they'd had the foresight to put certain precautionary measures into place, the most important of which had been to secure and maintain a number of transport vessels – including our current home – the USS _Ascella_ , a crater-class cargo ship commissioned by the US Navy for service in World War II.

The ship is old and Jared never feels comfortable taking her more than a couple miles off shore, but she's kept us out of the reach of the Executor so far. We dock with sea-side compounds every few days or so to transport goods and equipment in order to avoid suspicion. Those days I'm trapped below deck. Those days are the worst.

"We should go," I tell Christian, "You know how cranky he gets when we're late."

Christian nods in agreement but he doesn't look away from the sea. "You're right."

I twine my fingers with his and pull him away from the ship's railing. We turn to follow Adrian toward the hold entrance that leads below deck, but I can't help but cast one last glance over my shoulder at the pale morning sun. _Our heads are still above the water_ , I tell myself, _I can still see the horizon._

We still have a chance.

* * *

Jared Sage looks exhausted. The bags under his eyes and the gray color invading his formerly blonde hair almost makes me feel sorry for him. He stands at the far end of the ship's main hold, staring at the poorly constructed map we'd pinned to the wall. "This plan of yours is going to get us all killed."

Again, I _almost_ feel sorry for him.

Christian unhitches himself from the metal wall he'd been leaning against and wanders over to the map. "We've been over this," he reminds Jared. "Our resources are limited; this is the best we can do."

I keep my mouth shut. Surprisingly, or maybe unsurprisingly, Christian has far more patience than me when it comes to dealing with the former councilman. Despite the close confines of the ship, we'd managed to avoid speaking to each other for the most part. These meetings are about as close as we get to having a conversation

Jared lets out a huff. "What if Castille and Tanner aren't able to recover the information that we need? What happens then?"

"We proceed as planned," Christian states with forced confidence. "Their mission was always a long shot. They're inability to complete it before the end of Phase One changes nothing."

"Remind me again when Phase One ends," Adrian interjects from the far side of the room. He, Sydney, and Sonya all stand around a table piled high with precious books and sheets of paper scribbled from margin to margin with notes.

Sydney scowls at him. We've been over this what feels like a hundred times.

Christian doesn't seem to mind though, and he begins rattling off the main points of our three-phased plan. "We're dropping off the last of the Portum Lux civilians today," he says, gesturing to a red mark on the map. "The former city of Baltimore is one of the largest operating harbor compounds in NAAMA, which should make blending in a little easier. The group will do exactly as the others have done – spread the word."

Christian makes it sound so simple, but if it hadn't been for the Executor's population shifting initiatives, we would have never made it this far.

Every time the _Ascella_ docks with a harbor compound, we leave more than just supplies and equipment behind. For the past two months, we've been leaving small groups of Portum Lux citizens and ad Salvum guards behind to be integrated into the compound's population. Each group has been given very careful instructions to tell the story of the Havens, of how Portum Lux had come to be, and how it had come to an end. But more importantly, they have to tell the truth about the Executor and the role she had played in the Pulse.

We're hoping to recruit more people to our cause, but that's easier said than done.

We need to start a fire under the people of NAAMA, we can't fight the Executor alone, but first – the people need to be willing to fight for themselves. Telling Portum Lux the truth about Natasha during Victor's trial had been enough to spark a rebellion, and we have to hope that it's enough to keep the fire burning outside of Portum Lux.

"Once we can confirm that everyone is in place, we can move forward with Phase Two," Christian continues. During Phase Two we'll –"

"Right, right," Adrian interrupts, waving his hand. "I remember Phase Two quite well, it being the one most likely to result in our collective death." He joins Christian and Jared at the map, narrowing his green eyes to study the various markers – most of which are in the shape of an actual question mark. "What I don't understand is how we can move forward at all with this _spread the word_ nonsense if the word they're spreading is missing the most important part – if Eddie and Mikhail can't locate the Capitol then how does any of this work?"

"It's not like we're expecting every man, woman, and child in NAAMA to storm the Capitol," Sonya chimes in. "So why should it matter whether the people know where it is. What matters right now is that they know the truth about their leader."

"Yes, we don't expect everyone to do the physical fighting, I agree," Adrian says defensively. "To an extent," he adds. "But if Eddie and Mikhail can't find it, then no one gets to storm it, including us."

"Which is probably why the Executor hid it in the first place," comments Sydney. "You can't attack what you can't find."

"My aunt did always did enjoy the simpler schemes," Christian muses aloud. "Why bother with intricacies when you can do something less complex but still effective."

Jared lets out a snort. "Yes, triggering an electromagnetic pulse, destroying the modern world and setting human development back centuries: simple but effective."

"Dad," chides Sydney. "If you don't have anything to contribute to the discussion, then maybe you should go make sure the last group is ready to go ashore. We should be docking soon."

I watch the indecision play out across Jared's expression. Now that Portum Lux has been broken and scattered across the country, Sydney is all he has left. He won't risk alienating her, and that means being less of the pretentious bigot he had been as my instructor.

"Very well," he concedes. He turns on his heel and walks away from the map, but pauses before he reaches the threshold of the doorway I've been leaning against. "Stay below deck," he reminds me, but doesn't meet my gaze.

I don't give him so much as a nod before turning to join Christian and Adrian at the map. We'd had to sketch out NAAMA's borders as best we could on scraps of burlap that Sonya had managed to stitch together. It looks more like a flattened scarecrow than a map, but it's still better than nothing.

My eyes drift to the Midwestern Province, to the black dot marking the compound I had grown up in. My fingers trace the dotted lines marking the route we had taken south to find the Havens. It feels strange to have that journey reduced to a series of hastily scrawled lines on torn fabric.

"We've come a long way," Adrian murmurs.

My hand falls to my side. "We still have a long way to go."

* * *

It's practically midnight before we're able to sneak the last of the civilians off of the _Ascella._ The docks of this particular compound are more crowded than the others had been. It had taken us nearly two hours just to get into the harbor, and we probably won't be able to make it out until early the next morning.

I had been confined to my room for most of the day, forced to re-read the same set of books I'd managed to pilfer from the old library before leaving Portum Lux. I'd mostly taken textbooks – anatomy, physiology, biology, a few on particle physics, but that feels more like reading gibberish than anything else.

I'd only allowed myself to take one novel, I've practically memorized _Brave New World_ at this point, but the words still bring some comfort, though I sometimes find myself remembering my favorite quote: _"I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin."_

I find myself wondering if I'm the kind of person who could handle something like the passion and the danger and all of the awful and wonderful things that come with that kind of freedom. I almost feel guilty for thinking about it – I'm about to start a war and here I am, daydreaming about a life of passion and fervor.

A sharp knock at my cabin door makes me jump and the book falls from my hands and onto the musty floor below me.

I scramble off of the narrow bed, "Who is it?" I ask uneasily. The only people on this boat I would care to see right now wouldn't have bothered knocking.

The door swings open to reveal Eddie Castile, looking a little disheveled, but otherwise unharmed.

"Eddie!" I cry, taking a step toward him, but hesitate when I notice his weary expression.

He'd wanted to go after Rose. I think a small part of him blames me for letting her leave, though I know he would never actually say it out loud. I can only hope that he knows Rose well enough to realize that there is nothing I could have done to stop her from going after Dimitri.

Still, I know he can't help but think of her whenever he looks at me.

I want to tell him that I know the feeling, that I find myself looking for her at dinner and around corners; I want to tell him that I miss her too.

"You're back." I state awkwardly, but then I feel my eyes go wide. "Does this mean you found the Capitol?"

Eddie takes a step into my cabin, pulling the metal port door shut behind him. He falls back against it before saying with a sigh, "No."

My stomach drops. _No._

"But," he says, trying to sound more hopeful. "I think I found something better."

* * *

"Who else knows about this?" Christian asks in a low voice.

"Just the…" Eddie pauses to count those of us gathered around a crate in the back of the _Ascella's_ cargo hold. "Just the seven of us. For now," he adds as an afterthought. "The whole country will know by tomorrow though."

Christian glances down at his watch. "Which would give us a little less than five hours to get off this boat, get disguises, and then infiltrate this..." his voice tapers off in confusion. "Explain to me again what you want us to do?"

Eddie and Mikhail exchange a quick glance. "In light of recent events," starts Mikhail. "The Executor has decided to take more of an interest in the people."

"Not their wellbeing or anything," Eddie adds. "Just their…opinion of her."

"She's worried about a revolt," Mikhail continues.

Christian straightens beside me, folding his arms defiantly across his chest. "As she should be," he huffs.

"What does she plan to do about it?" asks Sydney, her golden eyes narrowed in Mikhail's direction.

Eddie reaches into the pocket of his faded NAAMA military jumpsuit and unfurls a tattered looking poster. He sets it down on the crate, trying to smooth out the corners. We all lean in closer, heads bowed together to try to get a better look at the poster.

My eyes go wide. "Is that…" I pause, studying the poster further. "Is that her?"

Christian swallows hard. "That's her," he confirms. "That's the Executor."

The image of a woman stares up at us. Her face is lovely, piercing blue eyes set into a heart-shaped face, pale skin juxtaposed with inky black hair. Her expression is soft – almost sympathetic, but there's still something cunning about her, lurking beneath the wrinkled edges of the poster.

 _She looks just like him_ , I think to myself.

It had always been so easy to keep them separate – this boy that I love and this woman that I hate with every fiber of my being. Up until this moment, the only thing they had shared in my mind is a last name. I had never considered that he might _look_ like her.

Despite being NAAMA's one and only governing entity, Executor Ozera had managed to conduct most of her affairs from behind the scenes; very few had actually ever seen her in person. When I was younger, I sometimes wondered if she was even a real person, or if she was just a voice that I was forced to listen to every year during the Anniversary gathering.

Looking at her now though, I see that she is very real.

"Six Regions in Six weeks," Sonya says, reading the words on the poster out loud. "What does that mean?"

"She's going on a sort of _morality_ campaign," explains Eddie. "She's going to make stops in each of the major regions to give speeches, kiss babies, that sort of thing, anything to try and convince the people that everything in NAAMA is fine."

Adrian, who had been uncharacteristically quiet up until this moment, let's out a snort of disbelief. "Right, because a bunch of pretty words will be enough to distract the people from the fact that they're practically enslaved. She's delusional if she thinks her little tour of the countryside is going to make her more likable."

"Adrian!" Sydney exclaims. "You're a genius."

Adrian blinks at her, dumbfounded. "I am?" he asks. "I mean, yes, I am. Of course I am."

"The Executor is too smart to think this campaign is going to improve the public's opinion of her regime," Sydney explains, sounding almost excited. "So why else would she bother visiting all six of the major regions?"

"She's planning something," Eddie confirms.

I pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration. "Of course she is." It had been stupid of us to not consider that the Executor had been just as busy scheming these past two months as we had been.

"Did you find out _what_ she's planning?" Christian asks, his voice taught as a wire. I can feel him withdraw a little further into himself every time the Executor is mentioned.

Mikhail shakes his head. "No, but whatever it is – it's big."

"How big?" I ask.

"The first stop on her campaign is the Northeastern Province," Eddies says a little darkly.

Everyone falls silent.

"We're in the Northeastern Province," says Adrian, echoing all of our thoughts.

Eddie nods slowly. "We saw her little caravan setup on our way into the compound."

An icy fist wraps itself around my heart. "She's here?" I ask.

"It's the first stop on her tour," Eddie confirms.

"And you didn't think that maybe you should have mentioned that little detail _first?_ " Adrian demands. "Hey guys, long time no see, oh by the way – _our mortal enemy is camped out two miles from us_ – also the weather is absolutely lovely, did you see the sunset?"

"We came as soon as we could," Eddie growls.

Sydney rests a hand on Adrian's shoulder and the gesture seems to instantly calm him.

Christian snatches up the poster, his blue eyes burning in what I realize is a perfect reflection of Natasha's. "What kind of guard detail is she traveling with," he asks.

"We couldn't be sure," answers Mikhail. "but there were a lot of personnel, more than just a guard detail it looked like."

Christians studies the poster for a few seconds longer before slamming it back onto the crate. "This changes nothing," he says in a low voice. "We proceed with Phase One and Two as planned."

"This changes everything!" Eddie retorts angrily.

"Your mission was to find the Capitol, not my aunt's crackpot whistle-stop tour," Christian seethes.

"Don't you get it?" Eddie asks, trying to keep his tone even. "If we can find a way to join up with her campaign or follow it, we have a better chance of finding the Capitol than if we try to find it stumbling blindly across the country."

Christian balls his hands into fists, crinkling the poster beneath his palms. "This isn't about you wanting to find the Capitol," he says, his voice deadly calm. "This is about Rose and Dimitri."

The color drains from my face. _Of course this is about finding Rose_.

Eddie is practically vibrating with anger "We should never have abandoned her!"

" _She_ abandoned us," Christian hisses. "She chose to leave."

"She didn't have a choice," Eddie says darkly. "The Executor took Dimitri, if Rose didn't go after him then –"

"Then he dies," says Christian, cutting Eddie off. "But you and I both know that Rose has a better chance of getting herself killed than she does of finding Dimitri, if he's even still alive."

The ship's hold has fallen deathly silent and the horrible truth of Christian's words hang in the air like a storm cloud.

"If Rose is still alive –" Christian starts, but I don't let him finish.

"Don't," I snap. "Don't say _if_. Rose is alive."

"Lissa – " Christian says, voice tinged with regret. "I only meant - ."

"I know what you meant," I tell him coldly. I turn my gaze on the others, briefly locking eyes with Eddie. "Christian is right. This doesn't change anything."

Before anyone can respond, I turn my back on them and march toward the narrow stairs leading back up to the main deck. I don't care that I'm supposed to remain hidden. If I don't get out of this stuffy, cloying hold soon I'm going to wretch.

I hear footsteps following me but I don't dare look back. The metal door of the ship clangs shut behind me and I dart as quickly as I can toward the _Ascella's_ stern. The deck feels like a ghost town, and the only light comes from the sliver of moon hanging in the sky.

When I reach the ship's back rail, I run my hands along the smooth metal until I come across the thick rope I know is spooled around it. I begin unwinding the heavy rope, but the process is slow going.

"Are you planning to propel down into the water and swim to shore?" a voice asks skeptically.

I freeze, then turn slowly to face what I'm sure is Christian, come to talk me down. Instead I find Eddie, his good-natured face bathed in pale moonlight.

The rope is still clutched in my hand, and I look down at it, feeling suddenly foolish. "Yes," I admit sheepishly.

Eddie glances over the rail of the _Ascella_. "That's a long way down."

"I don't care," I say, stiffening. "I have to go after her. I should never have let her leave in the first place."

He offers me a small smile. "I was hoping you would say that. But what about Christian, what about this master plan you've all concocted?"

"Christian and the others can keep moving forward as planned. They don't need me," I say quietly, trying to keep the guilt I feel snaking along my bones from coloring my words. "Rose does."

Eddie takes a step toward me. "Are you sure about this?" he asks. "Getting close to the Executor isn't going to be easy."

My heart slams against my chest like a battering ram. "I know," I say shakily. "But if she really does have Dimitri, then that's where Rose will be."

He takes the rope from my hands and drops it onto the deck. "Good, but I think I have a better way off this ship that doesn't involve dropping one hundred feet into the ocean."

I let out a shaky laugh. "I'm all ears."

Eddie grabs my hand and leads me across the deck, toward the port side. He let's go when we reach the rail and swings a leg over it, hoisting himself up and over the side of the ship.

"Eddie!" I hiss. "What are you doing?"

Instead of answering, he grins at me, then releases the metal bar, disappearing from sight. I leap toward the railing, heart lodged in my throat, but when I peer over the ship's edge, I see him smiling up at me. It takes me a moment to realize that he's standing in one of the lifeboats that's anchored to the sides of the _Ascella_.

"Are you insane?" I demand.

He shrugs. "Probably. Now come on," he says, beckoning me to follow him.

I grip the rail and use it to kick one leg gracelessly over the side. My hands are trembling and I cling to the ship for dear life. Once I'm all the way over, I freeze, staring down in mild terror at the ten feet of air that lies between the lifeboat and me.

"I thought you said your way off the boat _didn't_ involve plummeting into the ocean," I remind Eddie.

I can barely see him roll his eyes in the darkness. "Fine, I lied. Now come on, before someone catches us."

I squeeze my eyes shut for a brief moment, and then release the rail. The fall is brief, and before I know it, I'm sprawled out on the bottom of the tiny lifeboat.

"That wasn't so bad," I wince, trying to sit up.

Eddie crouches down beside me. "That's good," he says, reaching for the handle of a crank mounted on the side of the boat. "Because you're probably going to hate this part."

He pulls down on the lever, and I hear the sound of the ropes holding up the lifeboat unspooling rapidly. Before I even have time to scream – we're falling.

* * *

 **So about the first update…how many of you saw "Ivan's" real identity coming?! I tried to drop little hints throughout the chapter that there was more to Ivan than what the narrator was choosing to reveal, but figured the chapter would pack more of a punch if I actually confirmed it at the end.**

 **Rose's journey in** _ **Awake**_ **is** **going to be kind of rough at first, but she's also going to keep growing and developing and learning more about the kind of person she wants to be.**

 **I also have a lot planned for Lissa. Homegirl is gonna learn to stand on her own two feet once and for all.**

 _ **Awake**_ **is also going to introduce a lot of new characters – and I'm super excited to reveal who they are and how they will ultimately influence the outcome of the story.**


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